


Grasping

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Swap, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Somnophilia, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: Sam knows the life of a hunter is unsuitable in a long term kind of way; as soon as he gets accepted to Stanford, he takes his baby brother Dean with him to California. They try to start over, but Dean misses their old life. Occasionally, Sam has to remind him why this is oh so much better.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts).



Long day. 9 in the morning class. Two personal training clients. Retail hell shift, noon to five. Forty minutes on the bus. Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it for the tired bones Sam drags around every day. Sometimes he wants to lay down in the middle of the sidewalk, in the middle of the street and let the world play on without him. Sometimes that's all he wants.

But.

Walking up the five flights of stairs, he smells something home-cooked already. It changes his tune, it changes it every day. By the time Sam's at the landing, key in the door, he's very nearly smiling for real, for the first time all day. Chipped paint door, numbers 616 rusting brass. It's as close to a home as he's going to get. The door creaks open, scuffs up against a line of salt and creaks again. Faded couch, probably fifth hand from the thrift store and a wobbly coffee table make up the living room but beyond that, there's the kitchen.

And Dean's in the kitchen.

Dean's cross-legged on a chair with a pen in his mouth and his head resting on his hand, scraps of homework laid out in front of him. The light diffuses overhead from the paper lantern they put around the bare lightbulb, painting Dean up blond and tanned and if Sam didn't know better, he'd swear he was native Californian. It's only been six months but he looks born and bred. He turns and smiles so soft at Sam it knocks his breath away.

See, it's worth it. Coming home to this after all of _that_. Everything is worth it

Sam smiles back and dumps his stuff by the couch and thank god the day is over, thank god. Sam tousles Dean's hair on the way to the fridge, grabs a cold beer and sits down heavy across from his brother. There's a newspaper in with Dean's math and Sam knows what that means, feels it like a quick, icy stab in his gut but he'll wait. He always does.

“I made lasagna,” Dean announces, the chewed end of the pen going back into his sweet pink mouth, smooth jaw flexing as he chews at it.

“Damn, that's impressive.”

Dean fights a smile, shrugs a shoulder. “Not really. 's just a recipe. Just layers, like, meat and then cheese and noodles. Then you just shove it in the oven and bam. Done.”

“Soon?”

“Mhm. Ten minutes.”

“I'm starving,” Sam groans, leans back in his chair, pats his stomach. They're both bigger than when they arrived in Palo Alto, taller and well-fed. Dean thought they'd get fat and lazy so Sam made him start running, pushed him to join the football team. It worked. Never thought he'd see Dean in pads and a helmet but now he gets to, gets to watch Dean be a normal fifteen year old. The kind of fifteen year old Sam never was, never even wanted to be, not really.

“You're always starving.” Dean rolls his eyes, can't fight the smile any longer, breaking out around the chewed end of the pen and lighting up the fucking room. “How was your day?”

Sam sucks in a breath and chases it with beer, shrugs. “Alright. Busy. If I have to fold one more sweater, I think my arms are gonna fall off.”

“I did the laundry, so don't worry about it.”

Of course he did. Dean's giving every housewife a run for their money, has been the entire time they've been here and it's fucking incredible. It puts Sam at ease, it makes him a little worried, it jams all kinds of weird and weirder feelings into him. They've always been mixed up. Sam's always been mixed up. Brother-father-mother-lover. He knew moving wouldn't change it. Knew it would complicate everything. Didn't know how much.

“I am so done,” Dean grumbles, spits the pen out and gathers his stuff up hastily into a big pile, shoved into his binder.

“Are you actually done?”

“Yeah. This is weekend homework stuff.”

“Nice job,” Sam points with the beer bottle, thoroughly approves, watches Dean glow with it.

“Hey,” Dean says, brow creasing, eyes flashing towards the newspaper as his fingers creep towards it.

Sam knows. Knows what's coming and fights back a frown.

“So, I was reading the paper,” Dean continues, spins the paper towards Sam. It's folded open so the headline shows, something about a triple murder in Nevada. Sam skims it, doesn't sink in, doesn't want to. “This kinda seems like a case. And it's close, so...”

“So?”

“So...I thought maybe we could call Dad and tell him. And it's close, maybe we could go along.”

“It's not that close,” Sam says, but he doesn't really know how long it'd take to get from Palo Alto to Reno.

“Four hours if we steal a car - “

“Rent a car.”

“Yeah, alright. Maybe five or six if we take the bus and meet him there.”

Sam doesn't say anything, then. Dean's got it all figured out. Dean's probably spent the afternoon planning the route and researching. It eats Sam up inside every time he has to say no, every time he has to pretend he doesn't miss it too. But the old life is unsustainable, is dangerous and scary and it's better for Dean to look at him like this, like a petulant child, than to die at the hands of something bad.

Isn't it?

“I'll tell him,” Sam says, non committal, the best he can do. Heat rises in his face the more he reads the article because fuck everything, it _is_ a case. It's a real actual case and people's lives are depending on it, on _them_ but he can't-won't budge.

Dean frowns at him, lines creasing his sweet baby face, bright green eyes casting down. He doesn't argue but the face is enough. He gets up for the stove, gets their dinner out without a word. Two plate on the table silently. Not talking feels worse than fighting and it stretches out for most of their meal.

Sam tries. God, he tries. Compliments the food, sings Dean's praises for all the completed homework, for the spotless apartent. For everything. But there's nothing but downcast eyes and quivering jaw, quick movements in eating, in cleaning up.

There's nothing.

Not for a while, at least.

After dinner, after showers and laying stuff out for the next day, Sam's on the couch with a nature documentary playing out on their tiny TV and Dean, pajama-clad, climbs into his lap. He still fits like that and Sam hopes he always will. Dean's a warm gentle weight on him, clean smelling, looping an arm around the back of Sam's neck and reaching into his hair. His fingers always do this, always have, rustling restless through the long strands.

Dean's been sitting on him like this for as long as they can remember. Sam presses his nose into the spot where his t-shirt collar's worn and frayed, where it's all soft skin. He used to smell baby-sweet, delicate and like honey and Sam never wanted it to go away. But it did. And it might be even better now. Teenage-strong like hormones, like pheromones, guaranteed to get Sam's mind in the gutter.

Sam sighs against his brother, slouches down, winds an arm around Dean's waist and then another and holds him tight and close and squeezes his eyes shut and he'd do anything to keep Dean here, to keep him safe and soft. To keep himself sane, too.

They're just quiet for a while.

Then.

“Maybe...Saturday?” Dean starts, his voice sleepy-low, his body shifting aimlessly, “You don't work so if you wanna wake me up like...like you like, I'd like that.”

Sam smiles against his skin, heart zapped with electricity. _Like you like_. He knows what that means.

“Sure. Sure, we can do that, De. If you want to.”

“I do,” he sighs out quiet, his almost-grown body deflating with it. “Wanna do it tonight but 'm tired.”

“'s okay,” Sam mutters against his neck, too-long hair tickling at his nose. “Don't have to do anything, lemme take care of you.”

Dean stiffens a second, sighs again, nods.

Sam skims a hand onto Dean's thigh, scratches it through the soft sweat pants and Dean shakes already, the tiniest little quiver that his body can't hide. “You wanna get a haircut soon?”

“No,” Dean's voice shakes too, just a bit, just how Sam likes. “Gonna grow it.”

 _Like yours_ goes unsaid but Sam knows. Sam always knows.

Dean's even got his big brother's sweats on, must be since they're so loose, since Sam's long fingers dance past the waistband and inside so easily. So downy, only a sparse dusting of hair under Sam's fingertips on his way to Dean's dick.

In just a second, he's twitchy-teenage-hard, so quick that Sam laughs against his neck. It's never a surprise, always a delight to him and mild embarrassment for Dean. Sam feels his pulse race under his mouth, his neck heat up. His face is probably red under freckles too. He's such a fucking prize of a boy and he's all Sam's, only Sam's.

Sam's sure anyway that no one else could make Dean come so undone. No one else knows him like this, inside and out. For all that they've been fucking, Dean's still virgin white sometimes and Sam pushes it to the limits.

“Spit,” Sam says, drags his hand out of Dean's pants and holds it up to his mouth and the kid, bless him, does not hesitate.

Sam breaks records after that, stroking Dean in a sprint to the finish, until his lithe body bows up off his lap. He sobs when he comes this fast, when Sam wrings it out of him like this, the sweetest music Sam's ever, ever heard, as perfect a reward as the copious splashes of come inside the sweatpants, on Sam's hand.

He can't help muttering, “Beautiful,you're so fucking beautiful,” into Dean's shoulder, nipping at the meat of it while Dean pants out all his breath, while he comes down.

“Y-you went too fast again,” Dean huffs, sags back against his brother and slips his hand up into his hair again.

“That's not very nice.”

Dean's heart pounds and pounds and Sam feels it square in his chest, perfect scared rabbit tattoo. He scoops up all the mess Dean made and quickly stuffs his fingers in his baby brother's mouth. Dean's fast with his tongue, eager and obedient, twisting deft around Sam's digits. Warm, wet inside, it's a fight not to fuck his mouth. He drags his fingers out and sucks the Dean-taste off himself.

“Thank you,” Dean relents, relaxes, letting his head drop back. “Thank you, Sir.”

 _Better_.

Sam grunts approval, not for the first time ignoring his own hard dick that must be uncomfortable against Dean's back, but neither of them address it. “Bedtime?”

“Mm, 'kay.” Dean slides off his lap, still flush-faced, sated, the brightest star. He kisses Sam quick, skitters his fingers over his jaw and shuffles down the hall to the bedroom they share. Such a good boy.

Sam waits. Half an hour usually has Dean in the right stage of sleep. He's on his back, he's taken off his clothes and a sheet drapes over him like some statue from antiquity. In the dark, his skin could be marble. He doesn't stir for Sam, breathing gentle, just-defined chest rising and falling.

This is how it all started.

Sam's still hard from before, fluffed himself while he waited and now it won't take long, won't take long at all. He holds his breath and tugs at his dick, watches the planes of Dean's perfect face like a hawk. He's always beautiful but he's the most beautiful at rest and Sam heaves air out of his nose when he comes, letting it stripe carelessly across Dean's face, splattering onto his pretty girl lips.

He still looks perfect like that, blissful in sleep, unaware. At least until Sam wipes it off, has to because that's at least the polite thing to do.

Sam's got a tissue, dabbing it when Dean grumbles awake, long fan lashes fluttering.

“Good?” he mutters, sleepy-rough

Sam nods, swipes the tissue across his soft lips and follows it with his thumb.

“Love you,” he grumbles next.

Sam slips in to bed beside him at that, kisses him asleep again and mutters it back into Dean's warm, slack mouth. “Love you too.”

 

* * *

 

Friday night, they go to bed together. Dean's naked again. Sam is too. Dean sleeps on his chest, his hands curled up baby-tight.

He took care to lay the handcuffs out on the bedside table, for tomorrow morning. Sam sees them glinting in the moonlight that their threadbare curtain lets in. He falls asleep with a smile, already buzzing with anticipation.

 

* * *

 

They sleep in. Sam only gets one of these a week, if he's lucky. So by time he wakes up, 10:07 according to the clock radio, the sun's coming in full and bright, spilling into the room, lighting up everything. Lighting up Dean, as if he needs it.

He rolled off of Sam sometime in the night, lays on his stomach with his arms under his head. His pink mouth's slightly open, slightly moist. Probably delicious, Sam thinks.

He sits up to admire the rest of Dean that's uncovered by their lavender sheets. His arms, his shoulders, his smooth back and the dimples over his ass. Then lower, the peachy roundness under the sheets before Sam slips them away. That's even better, breathtaking even. He's felt like a creep about staring at Dean unaware for far too many years and even though this is sanctioned, he still feels a guilty knot in his stomach about it.

Kinda makes everything even better in a hot sick way.

Sam moves slow until he's hovering over Dean, kneeling beside him. He could look forever, he could perch here and stare until the end of time and he's already logged hours doing it. Before, the risk barely covered the reward but now they're alone. Every day, all day.

And it's to keep Dean safe, primarily.

And it's gloriously selfish at the same time because Sam can do whatever he pleases just so long as he takes care of Dean.

Sam smiles a little, ghosting his palm over the swell of Dean's ass, catching his thumb on the crease so it pulls apart. He's pink there, sweet dusky pink. Dean's a deep sleeper, doesn't stir when Sam pulls him fully apart and hitches his hips up. Sam settles there, between his legs, nuzzles Dean's softest parts, reaches under for his dick too.

Dean gets hard before he even wakes up.

Dean mews in his sleep like a hungry kitten when Sam licks his tight hole open, fighting to be quiet, drooling a mess everywhere.

Sam get maybe five glorious minutes of this, of Dean lazily pressing back against him, sleepy-warm and just slightly unhinged and the moment he stirs, waking with a gasp and a moan, Sam twists his tongue in deep as he can, licks all the hot secret parts he can reach.

Dean doesn't say anything, just rocks against Sam's face and pants and gasps. Sam loves it, the slow wake up, the drowsy noises, the sharp taste under his tongue. It won't last like this, not for long so he has to savour it.

It's all over once Dean's hands sink into his hair.

Sam pulls away, doesn't want to, but rules are rules. Even when Dean whines, humps back at him, at nothing, and looks over his shoulder like a wounded bird. Sam shuffles over towards the handcuffs, cold metal ready and waiting.

“Be a good boy, now,” Sam says, low and even. Dean's taste is still on his lips, filling up his mouth. He gathers Dean's hands up behind his back, stroking at his bony wrists before he claps him in the cuffs, tugs at the chain that connects them so Dean rises just a bit and falls face-first when Sam lets go.

“Yessir,” Dean mutters into the pillow, heaving with a shaky sigh.

Sam sighs in kind, rocks back on his heels and cracks a blow down over Dean's ass that makes him jump so nice.

“”Yes, Sir,” Dean enunciates next, his head twisting to look at Sam. His eyes catch the light, grass-green and heavy-lidded and shining excited. He's lovely like this, just-bound and morning-groggy.

“You know, you were humping my face in your sleep,” Sam tells him, “Must've really wanted it.” He traces the still-wet opening with his thumb, nudges it inside and Dean gasps again, gasps and clenches like it's never happened before.

“I do,” Dean whines, hastily adding, “Sir,” while his dick leaks down his thigh.

Sam drapes over his back, curls one hand around Dean's hip and the other up under his neck, sighing when his dick slots into the crease of Dean's ass, bumping against the slick knot of his asshole. “No one else treats you so good, do they?” Sam purrs right in his ear. “No one else would. You remember that.”

Sam slides off and leaves Dean still gasping, wriggling in place.

It only takes a moment for Sam to retrieve the lube but Dean's begging by then, high-pitched and desperate for it and Sam can't ever resist that. He moves fast, holds Dean in place with one hand and uses the other to open him up.

There's never any sense in willing Dean quiet; it won't work. He moans on one finger like it's the biggest thing he's ever taken, keens on two while he clenches around Sam's long digits. When the third hits, Sam rocks back on his heels to watch the impossible looking stretch, letting go of Dean's hip and letting him fuck back as much as he wants, the only concession he's going to get for a while.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” Sam croons, slow-stroking his own dick just out of Dean's eye line.

Dean doesn't answer so Sam twists his wrist, curls his fingers up inside just right until he feels Dean shake. His bound up hands tense and relax on his lower back, scrabbling at nothing, reaching and maybe it's for Sam, maybe it's for anything.

It's another minute of Sam stroking inside before Dean relents, finally spitting out, “Fuck me, fuck me, you gotta fuck me, Sir.”

Sam shudders out a sigh, doesn't waste time teasing him any longer. Only a few seconds after the words are out of Dean's mouth, Sam lines up, pushes in and god, he tries to keep it together.

It's too much though, it's _so_ much. Dean's hot and shaking under him, his fingers scratching against Sam's stomach and it's nothing, not a thing compared to how tight he is inside. He doesn't stop clenching for a long goddamned time and Sam can never get used to that. He's balls deep and Dean's still tightening, gasping like a perfectly untouched virgin.

“Just relax,” Sam tells him, gritting his teeth. He lays both hands over Dean's, presses down and fucks him sharp and short and that barely does it.

Not that it matters.

It never takes long when Sam wakes him up like this. Other times, they don't rush, take all day, take ages but this, this is about something different.

“Tell me,” Sam pants, can't quite get it out, losing his edge fast, “Tell me how it feels, tell me-”

“Big, big, Sir, you're so big, it's so good, it's perfect, it's -” Dean babbles so sweet when he's lost like that.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam babbles right back, just as lost. Dean's fingers rub up against Sam's and he lets them entwine so he stops seeking that comfort, gives him just that while he starts pounding, needs it fast like that now.

Dean's a wall of noise and Sam's no better. More practice and he'll get better, get more stern and less wrecked by his brother's ass but this is as good as he can do right now and there's never, ever any complaints.

Sam squeezes his hands hard, sets the most brutal pace he knows his little brother's body can take and in a minute, Dean's coming completely undone underneath him. The noise stops, his candy-pink mouth slacked open, eyes rolling back in his skull and Sam knows, knows this better than anything. Dean's coming like he's dying. That's how he sounds when he comes with just dick in his ass, that's how it feels and Sam dies a little bit with him too, with his beautiful baby brother.

Deep inside, Sam can't move for all the tightness and he doesn't need to; one day, he'll be able to hold out but that is not today. He doesn't even have to thrust, just lets go and fills Dean up with choked off moan, with a gasp for air and a silent prayer that he'll always always have Dean like this.

“I can feel it,” Dean whines out, head pressed into the pillow, body shaking again with the simple effort of not collapsing under Sam's weight, “I can feel it in me, it's-it's-it's deep you're so deep, Sir, oh my _god_.”

Sam smiles, outright grins at that. Still inside (he never ever wants to pull out), he snaps the cuffs off of Dean and grabs him, rolls them onto their sides, avoiding the wet spot where Dean unloaded. He traps Dean with one leg over his slender hip, with an arm around his waist and whispers, “Mine,” into his neck, into the sheen of sweat.

Dean mutters back nothing, garbled nonsense noise Sam feels rather than hears.

“Love waking up like this,” Sam tries next, “With you.”

“Mmm. Mhm.”

“I want to keep it like this. Forever. For as long as we can.”

“'kay, Sammy.”

It's drifting and noncommittal and as good a promise of the future as Sam can get from a fifteen year old. Maybe one day, he'll even believe it and he won't wind himself so tight around Dean, around everything he's built here.

But if he has to spend the rest of his life clinging, he'll do it. It's worth everything, every hardship, to sink content against Dean's lovely little body. He's safe, so long as he's wrapped up in Sam's arms.

 


End file.
